


Chicken Scratch, At The Bottom of The Page

by CookieCatSU



Category: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Genre: John is sad, M/M, Merle's such a good guy, Sickfic, Soup, and a mess, post story and song
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:14:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25814128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CookieCatSU/pseuds/CookieCatSU
Summary: John gets sick, starts to lose his voice, and considers how ironic life is, sometimes.Or; Merle cares for his dramatic boyfriend.
Relationships: Merle Highchurch/The Hunger | John
Kudos: 31





	Chicken Scratch, At The Bottom of The Page

He was a public speaker. His voice was everything, to him, for so very long.

He's lost it.

Sickness'll do that to ya, he's been told. Especially something as hard hitting as the swine flu.

He spends a few days, drifting in and out of delirium. When he finally wades out of the inky pool of, of confusion, Merle is staring upside down at him. Relief flashes across his face.

"Hey bud. I made you some soup. It's fresh"

"Thank you" He croaks, voice grindingly, pathetically hoarse. He grasps the bowl greedily, hardly even bothered to put on the appearance of decorum. A little bit of chicken broth spills down his chin, but he doesn't try to wipe it clean. He looked hagrid any way, salt touched hair all a mess, his usually pristine, crisp appearance tarnished.

The sharp lines of his suit were long gone, and his face was incredibly pale. He was sick, and he looked the part too, stewing in it. 

He wasn't even sure there was any point of putting up any ruses, as he'd always been so inclined to do before. Wasn't sure there was any point in hiding it. 

Merle has seen him fall apart before. Had seen him at his worst, consumed by hate and anger and desperation, clawing and gaping, dripping in opalescent black sludge, infinitely iridescent, like the monster he was. Had become. Held him broken and half diaphanous, as he slipped between the dwarves fingers, like sand in the surf. 

Merle had been there for him then, too, once he'd called him back.

This was child's play, in comparison. Just a little cold. Nothing he can't handle.

Breathing's apparently above him, though. 

He sputters, and nearly drops the bowl in his lap. He's lucky enough to land it on the table instead. Doesn't even spill a drop.

Then Merle's hand is at his elbow, steadying him, the other patting his back gently. Patting. Patting Oh… John's still coughing, raw, tearing and… ugh, that's not helping him regain his voice.

"Hey, hey, slow down buster, before you fucking choke" Merle laughs, but his concern clearly coats his words.

Concern. For his once mortal enemy. 

John still couldn't understand how that happened, how the man could come to feel affection for him, to care about him, after it all. How many times had he killed him, mercilessly, hand ablaze and eyes stony cold, as he watched him writhe? 57, perhaps?

But Merle still did care. And he's so grateful for it.

He wipes at his face with shaking hands. Looks up at dark eyes, and sees nothing but affection, born of so long linked together. He coughs again.

"I'm alright. I'm alright" He's smiling faintly, even though his voice warps and fades and crackles.

Merle presses his hand against flushed, clammy skin. Presses into his side, as if he weren't drenched in sweat, and burning up with fever. It's nice.

"Thank goodness. You had me worried for a sec there. Planning on finishing the soup?"

He'd forgotten about it, honestly. He stares for a moment. Short, before nodding eagerly, pushed by the swirling hunger in his gut.

"Yes. Yes… I'm famished" the bowl is already in his hands, and he's lapping like a dog.

"Kay, cause Imma feeling kind of peckish, and man, that soup smells good"

John glares at him over the edge of the bowl, but it's lighthearted. Merle bursts into laughter, pressing into the crook of his neck.

There's silence. It's comfortable… almost. Almost.

Except, something's eating at him. Drilling through his skin. Pulling and tearing.

"One more question" He drills out weakly, desperate, so distinctly cracking, "For old time's sake?"

Merle holds tightly onto the man's willowy arm, threading his fingers through his. Still so cold.

"Of course, man. Anything for you" And his smile is simpering, and reminiscent of old times. Simpler times. Scarier times too, John supposed.

John gulps. Frustration thrums. He used to be an orator, a public speaker. His voice had been his greatest asset, his greatest strength, but right now, it's failing him.

It's not just the sickness, either.

He scrambles for the notepad, letting out a satisfied hum when he finally snags it. Then he's writing furiously, pencil flying across the page. His hand shakes. Though he's been doing this, scribbling across paper when his voice is too frail, for weeks. It's never been so hard before.

Merle reads the cramped chicken scratch scrawled across the top of the page.

"How can you still stand me? After everything I did, you still stick by my side. I don't… I can't understand. ~~ I don't think I ever ~~ …  ~~ or will ever ~~ ...  ~~ I really ~~ … Why?"

"Always with the toughies, huh?" Merle laughs again (always laughing, so feather light and carefree) but it's edged ever so slightly with vexation. No, not quite. More like exasperation. 

Then, he's tracing his knuckles, in tight little figure eights around the bulging joints (always so touchy, feely, affectionate). John can hardly breath.

"C'mon, I've already answered this, John. You're my  _ friend _ "

"Thanks, for being the, maybe, the first. It's hard to believe anyone would want to be friends with… this. Mess"

Because for all of John's own assertions, his crisp appearance, his cool nonchalance, his suave way of dress, the way he holds his chin high as any self respecting gentleman should, that's what he was. A mess. An emotionally limited mess just stumbling back to normalcy. Whatever that may be for him.

Merle smiles, wide and cheerful. He even drags a smile out of John, tremulous, another crack in the mask of perfection (overrated. He preferred Merle's messy, unpredictable honesty), 

"Yeah, but you're  _ my _ mess" He chuckles. Pulls John up by the cuffs, up toward him. His beard tickles his chin, and he's hit by the smell of flowers. 

"And even if I could trade ya, I wouldn't" He's genuine, of course. So genuine.

Smiling so wide. So happy to see him. (He doesn't see the monster he is, but the human he used to be). So forgiving. His ray of sunshine.

* * *

The next day, it rains. They're trapped inside, with a storm brewing on the horizon, and John is _still_ _sick_. 

Reminiscent of decades past. 

Merle smiles anyway, slings an arm around his shoulder.

And John thinks, what a wonderful man.

What ever had he done to deserve him?


End file.
